


Like the aging winter sun

by darlin_maia



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Banter, Civil War Who?, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Love Confessions, M/M, POV Steve Rogers, Pining Steve Rogers, and then found him and they all went back to the Avengers Tower together, anyway, honestly i don't remember anything after the third cap movie, infinity war what?, no i'm not living with 2015 levels of hope, the one where steve sam and nat went around the world looking for bucky, under the guise of insults though, you know
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-11
Updated: 2021-02-11
Packaged: 2021-03-18 07:22:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29364678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darlin_maia/pseuds/darlin_maia
Summary: Bucky leaned in and, in one quick motion, caught Steve’s chin between his fingers so he had to look at him. “Listen to me, Rogers.” Once it was clear Steve wasn’t going to look away, he let go. Steve tried to hide the way his breath had hitched and heart started beating faster. “Just because they think Captain America is supposed to be some virtuous, pompous-ass patriot doesn’t mean that’s who Captain America is. You’re Cap because you’re a dumb punk from Brooklyn who doesn’t know how to back down from a fight. If they don’t wanna follow that guy, fuck ‘em. I’d follow him anywhere. I’d do everything over again if it meant getting to follow him a little longer.”Steve stared at him, feeling suddenly sober.**One-shot of Steve and Bucky finally getting their feelings out in the open, featuring fluffy banter, accidental kissing, and just a pinch of angst!
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 12
Kudos: 117





	Like the aging winter sun

**Author's Note:**

> Hello my friends and welcome to the first ever fic that I'm posting! I was cleaning out my computer and realized I have literally tens of thousands of words of Stucky fics, and I figured I might as well throw one out there. 
> 
> Let me know what you think in the comments! I love writing the dynamic between these two, so if you guys like it, I have plenty more where it came from :)
> 
> Title is from "Winter Bird" by AURORA.
> 
> Enjoy!

It was both a blessing and curse that Thor had left a barrel of Asgardian mead in the Avengers Tower the last time he had visited earth Steve mused as the lights dotting the ceiling appeared much prettier than they ever had before.

On one hand, it had been a long time since he had been drunk, and it was nice to remember what it was like to inhabit a body slightly more human. On the other, Steve had always been shit at shoving down his feelings when he was drunk, and emotional wasn’t exactly the best look for Captain America.

But Bucky sat across from him on the couch, and Steve figured if there was any occasion worthy of getting drunk over, it was your best friend miraculously returning from the dead after you yourself also returned miraculously from the dead. Sure, he’d gotten Bucky back months ago, and this wasn’t the first time he’d hung out with Steve and the handful of Avengers and SHIELD agents who didn’t have anywhere else to be on a Friday night, but something about tonight needed alcohol.

So, he took small sips from his glass and savored the burn in his throat as he listened to Tony and Rhodey argue about the benefits of making functional lightsabers. Warmth spread in his chest every time Bucky chimed into the conversation, and he didn’t realize someone had asked him a question until half the people in the room turned in his direction.

“Sorry?” He saw Bucky duck his head to hide his grin before he looked towards Maria Hill, who had been the one to say something in the first place.

“Would you go back?” Hill asked, nursing her beer as Steve took a sip of the Asgardian stuff. The mead made his head fuzzy, so he couldn’t quite wrap his head around the question.

“Go back where?” He glanced over at Bucky as he said it, and the soft smile he received in return seemed even brighter than usual through the haze of the alcohol. His chest ached as he thought back to other times it was like this, when it was Bucky smiling at him even though nobody else ever gave him a second look.

“To the past. Live the life you might have had,” Hill rephrased, and Steve didn’t need to think about the answer, not at all.

“Nah,” he said quietly. The word settled into his gut like it belonged there.

“C’mon,” Sam said, clapping Steve’s shoulder from his seat on the arm of the couch. “You wouldn’t want to go back, be with the love of your life, have a family?”

And maybe it was the mead that made him say it, maybe he was just exhausted of the way they all refused to really see him, but for whatever reason, he opened his mouth and said, “Carter wasn’t the love of my life.”

Even in their various drunken states, everyone looked at least mildly surprised.

Steve cleared his throat, the alcohol crumbling the walls he was usually so careful to maintain. “Everyone always says she was the love of my life. And of course I loved her. But I think you can love a lot of people a lotta ways. She did. She had an incredible life without me, with an amazing career and an amazing husband and I would never want to take that away from her.”

“I didn’t take you to be a romantic,” Tony said dryly as Steve downed the rest of his glass.

“I’m out of practice,” he replied, and his eyes flicked towards Bucky.

Bucky watched him with some sort of wariness in his eyes, like he was thinking about something that made him sad but he had to pretend not to be. Maybe he was hurt Steve had never said anything about his other great loves, whoever they were.

If only he knew.

That made Steve’s chest ache, so he downed another full shot before preparing to stand.

“What about you, Barnes?” Hill asked, leaning over the table, “Would you go back?” Steve stopped getting up so he could hear Bucky’s answer. He caught a glimpse of his glassy eyes in his reflection in the window behind Bucky, and for a moment, he didn’t recognize himself.

Bucky took more time to think than Steve had. “I don’t think so. It’s nice not having to worry about tuberculosis. And endless hot water is pretty great.” Steve couldn’t help but smile sadly at that, because if he ever had the chance to send Bucky back before Hydra got him, before he’d been stripped of his humanity, he’d do it in a heartbeat.

But he couldn’t say that. So instead, he grinned and settled for, “Still no flying cars, though.” Bucky laughed in reply, and the smile Steve craved so badly was directed at him again.

“Yeah, Stark. Howard promised us flying cars by 1960.”

Steve missed Tony’s reply as he let his gaze linger on Bucky. He somehow looked the same as he had back in Brooklyn but also like a completely different person. It was as if the light hit his eyes differently now.

If he was honest, Steve didn’t understand how Bucky could sit on a couch with a glass of Asgardian mead and laugh at something Natasha said as if he hadn’t spent decades being kicked to the ground. Steve hadn’t adjusted well; he just knew how to make it look like he had. But he knew Bucky, and this wasn’t an elaborate façade. When he laughed, he laughed for real. When he called Steve pal or punk or jackass, he meant it the same as he had when he’d said it dragging Steve out of alleyways.

He let his eyes trail over the strong line of Bucky’s jaw, the lines that crinkled around his eyes when he smiled. If he had it his way, Bucky would be the only thing he looked at for the rest of time.

Then Bucky glanced in his direction and locked eyes with him, so Steve had to pull his gaze away.

“I’m going to bed,” he said, his voice light even as everything inside him jumbled together into a confusing knot of feelings.

“Come on, Cap, it’s only eleven,” Rhodey said with a grin, but Steve shook his head.

“I’m pretty beat. See ya tomorrow.”

He headed for the elevator and tried to pretend he couldn’t feel Bucky’s eyes on his back.

As soon as the elevator door closed, he slumped against the wall and watched the little lights flick on and off as it climbed to the second-to-last floor. At first, he’d resisted Tony’s conviction they should all have space in the Avengers Tower because all he’d ever wanted was to go back to Brooklyn, but since Bucky had come back, he hadn’t cared much where they lived as long as it was together.

Tonight, though, the fact they shared a wing made it hard for him to pretend that Bucky and the feelings about him that were threatening to bubble over didn’t exist.

He went through his routine mechanically, changing into a t-shirt and sweatpants and brushing his teeth before sitting down on his bed. He didn’t try to turn off the lights or lie down. The residual feeling of drunkenness was enough to keep his mind cycling.

So he sat, his hands in his lap, staring somewhere between the closed shades and wall.

He hadn’t sat pensively for long before he heard a knock.

“Hey, pal.”

Steve hadn’t realized he didn’t close the door, but it didn’t look like Bucky had opened it either from the way he leaned on the doorframe.

“Hey yourself.”

Bucky lingered for a moment before Steve jerked his head in invitation. He took a seat on the end of the bed, giving Steve an examining look. “You doin’ alright?”

Steve laughed dryly, turning back to the wall so he wouldn’t get pulled in by Bucky’s eyes and say something regrettable. “Yeah, Buck. I’m good.”

Bucky leaned over so he could kick him. “You’ve always been shit at lying to me, Rogers. C’mon.” Steve tried to pull his leg away so he wouldn’t kick him again, but Bucky managed to snag his ankle with his own. “You were a sad enough drunk when we were gettin’ wasted on the regular.”

Steve looked down at their hooked ankles before sighing, “I’m not the person they think I am.”

“So?” Bucky untangled their legs but moved half a foot closer.

Steve missed the contact more than he’d care to admit. “I’m not—Captain America isn’t me.”

Bucky leaned in and, in one quick motion, caught Steve’s chin between his fingers so he had to look at him. “Listen to me, Rogers.” Once it was clear Steve wasn’t going to look away, he let go. Steve tried to hide the way his breath had hitched and heart started beating faster. “Just because they think Captain America is supposed to be some virtuous, pompous-ass patriot doesn’t mean that’s who Captain America is. You’re Cap because you’re a dumb punk from Brooklyn who doesn’t know how to back down from a fight. If they don’t wanna follow that guy, fuck ‘em. I’d follow him anywhere. I’d do everything over again if it meant getting to follow him a little longer.”

Steve stared at him, feeling suddenly sober. He tried to pick out the typical indications of Bucky’s drunkenness, but his eyes were clear and his face set pointedly. Unless he was hiding it flawlessly, Bucky was barely buzzed.

“Would you go back?”

Bucky cocked his head a little. “You heard what I told Hill.”

“I’m not Hill.”

Bucky kept his eyes another moment before looking away and letting out a heavy breath. “Would I take back everything I’ve done? In a heartbeat. But that doesn’t mean I want to live in the past.”

Steve turned that over in his head until the words became meaningless. The silence began to drag on between them, the only sound a soft whir as Bucky bent and unbent his fingers. It made Steve think of the day Bucky fell, and that made guilt wash up inside of him.

“You really wouldn’t want to?”

This time Bucky laughed to himself. “Aw, geez, Stevie, of course I would. Those good old days of racism and polio. Miss ‘em so much. What’s the 21st century got to that, huh? Fuckin’ amazing food? The civil rights act? Nah, sign me up for bigotry and tuberculosis.”

Steve stifled a laugh at Bucky’s tone, but as soon as he caught Bucky’s smiling face, he couldn’t help but smile back. Bucky nudged Steve’s calf with his foot, this time not hard enough to be a kick.

“Only thing worth it about the 40s was you, pal, and I hear you’re a 21st century kinda guy these days.”

Steve’s heart fluttered again. He snorted but ducked his head bashfully. “Exactly how much did you drink?”

“You callin’ me a lightweight?”

Steve tried to give him a serious look. “I’m just tryin’ to be a good friend is all, seein’ how you only got the off-brand super soldier serum and probably shouldn’t be ingestin’ the alcohol meant for gods.”

Bucky raised his eyebrows. “I could take you any day of the week, pal.”

A laugh bubbled out of him. “Yeah?”

Bucky tilted up his chin in a challenge. “Yeah.”

Steve’s stubborn streak flared up at the words, so he raised a hand jokingly, as if he was going to take a real swing.

Bucky knew him too well for that, and before he could extend his arm, Bucky had blocked it and had Steve’s wrist playfully clutched in his hand. Steve glanced from Bucky to his wrist and back. Bucky’s lips were twitching with amusement, a smug look in his eyes.

Maybe it was the adrenaline already coursing through him, maybe it was the alcohol, but in the span of a second, they went from sitting on the bed to throwing punches.

Steve wasn’t aiming to hurt Bucky, and he knew Bucky wasn’t trying to hurt him either. It was more of a dance than a fight, the kind that’s between two people who know each other better than themselves. It wasn’t like his other fights, where Steve couldn’t help but think in the back of his head that he had cheated by getting a serum that made it easy for him.

This was like he was back in Brooklyn, Bucky patiently blocking his hits as he tried to teach the a skinny asthmatic kid how to fight in a way that wouldn’t get him killed, except now Steve had the body to match his attitude. It was the first fight in a century where Steve Rogers, not Captain America, threw the punches.

Apparently that showed in his performance because, all of a sudden, Bucky had him pinned to the bed.

A few strands of his hair hung loose by his ears as he grinned above Steve, breathing heavily. “I taught you how to fight, Stevie. Ain’t nothing you can do that’ll surprise me.”

And if there was one thing that motivated Steve Rogers, it was being told he couldn’t do something. Bucky was right: there wasn’t much he could do that would be a surprise, so he analyzed the situation and did the one thing he could think of. He craned his neck and went to peck Bucky on the cheek.

Except somewhere, somehow he miscalculated, and his lips ended up pressed against Bucky’s.

Bucky drew back slightly, enough for Steve to scramble out from underneath him.

“Can’t be surprised, huh?” he said, his smug tone not at all matching the way he was screaming _ohmygodohshitwhatthefuckwhatthefuckwhatthefuck_ in his head. Bucky met his eyes, and the mess of feelings inside his stomach tightened. For the first time in years, he could remember what it felt like to have his heart beat irregularly and his lungs constrict without enough air as he watched the faint calculation in Bucky’s eyes. It was easy to forget how long that was all there had been in them when Bucky was so _Bucky_ most of the time, but every once in a while, Steve caught a glimpse of the Winter Soldier in his best friend’s eyes.

“Guess you got a few more surprises after all.”

Steve opened his mouth to reply, but all he could manage was a breathy, “’Course I do.”

They remained in awkward limbo for a few seconds, Bucky still half-straddling Steve’s legs, and Steve making no more attempt to get out from beneath him. Steve counted the breaths they took together, pretending he didn’t know how easy it would be to lean over and kiss his best friend again.

Then Bucky sat back and Steve scooted back against the headrest. They sat facing each other in silence for a while.

It suddenly occurred to Steve that it was later than he thought, because Bucky hadn’t been wearing a tank-top and sweatpants while they were downstairs and had to have changed before he came in.

“Steve?” Steve looked up to Bucky’s expectant face. The last effects of the alcohol had faded, but he felt a little drunk still.

“What?”

“I asked if you wanna play cards.” There was a hint of amusement in Bucky’s eyes, and Steve felt the mess of feelings loosen because sure, he had just kissed him, but this was still Bucky.

He glanced at the clock. “It’s late.”

Bucky snorted. “As if you’re going to sleep any time soon.”

Their eyes met in a challenge. Steve huffed.

“Fine. What do you want to play?” He leaned over to grab the deck of cards he kept in his nightstand.

Bucky made a show of looking deeply contemplative before saying, “Go fish?” Steve couldn’t help but laugh.

“Not exactly a game of master strategy, Buck.”

Bucky reached out to take the cards. “Exactly. I wanna make sure you can keep up.” This time it was Steve who kicked him, knocking over the precariously stacked cards as he did so.

“Asshole,” was all Bucky muttered as he reshuffled, but he was smiling.

He dealt out hands of five and set the rest of the cards between them. The bed wasn’t very soft—one thing Steve could begrudgingly thank Tony for—but the laminated cards still looked unsteady where they sat on the comforter.

Steve glanced at his hand. “Got any fours?”

“Who said you get to go first, punk?”

Steve schooled his face to look bored. “You sure your memory’s alright, jerk? You just dealt.”

“Who says we ain’t playing schoolyard rules?” Steve gave him an annoyed look even though it made him happy Bucky even remembered he’d spent three years when they were kids insisting the dealer gets to go first.

“Considering we ain’t been in school for eighty years—”

“Alright, Rogers, take your damn four.” Bucky held out the card, and Steve looked back at his hand.

“Any jacks?” Bucky shook his head.

“You better get to fishing, pal.”

They settled into the comfortable back-and-forth of the game for a few rounds, until it was late even by super-soldiers-with-irregular-sleep-schedules standards.

“What would you have done if you’d gone home after the war?” Steve asked as he gathered the cards of the last round (him 3 wins, Bucky 4) into a neat pile and placed it back on the nightstand. When he looked back at Bucky, there was something far away in his eyes.

“I wanted to travel the country, I think. Like hobos. Hop from train to train, see the sights. Go west. Live a little. You could draw portraits of folks at the Grand Canyon and then become a big famous artist and finally pay me back for all the times I covered your tickets at Coney Island.”

The answer drew out some long-lost sense of nostalgia Steve had spent a long time trying to shut away. “No settlin’ down, huh? Just hoboing your way across the country with me?”

Bucky’s answering look was almost incredulous. The space between where he sat on the center of the bed and where Steve leaned against the headboard suddenly seemed far too wide. “Stevie. You gotta realize that’s all I ever wanted.”

And for the first time in his life, Steve let himself entertain the possibility that maybe he wasn’t the only one of them who hadn’t been completely upfront about their feelings. Bucky was gazing at him more openly than he had since before the War.

“I’m sorry I didn’t look for you.” Steve hadn’t realized it had been weighing on him until he said it, the words escaping his mouth like they had needed to for years.

Bucky shook his head at the sudden change in topic. “It’s not your fault.”

Steve leaned in slightly, shaking his head right back. “Of course it is. I never even—I just— _I let you go_.” His voice resounded even though he was whispering, and Bucky reached out to rest his hand on Steve’s knee.

“You don’t get to make this about you, punk. It wasn’t your fault.” He didn’t mean it maliciously, but Steve wished he did.

“I know. I just—I didn’t even look. I didn’t look and then I took the easy way out.” He knew Bucky understood what he meant, and some self-loathing part of him hoped Bucky would withdraw his hand and leave and never look back.

Instead, he brushed his fingers against the back of Steve’s hand. “Don’t worry about it, Stevie. Honestly.” He pulled away his hand, and even though Steve wasn’t looking, he knew Bucky’s face was sad as he stood. “I should go to bed.”

Steve grabbed his arm gently before he could get out of reach. “Buck.” The metal was cool in his hand, but it wasn’t unpleasant. It was still Bucky, and it was Bucky’s eyes that met his with a mix of challenge and hesitancy.

Then he sat back down.

“How about you? What would you have done?”

Steve opened his mouth to say something about fighting what was left of Hydra, then marrying Carter and settling down. But for the first time since he woke up, the words died in his mouth because he knew they weren’t true.

“I don’t know.”

And he didn’t. He’d spent six years telling himself that if only he could go back, he could have his fairytale ending with Carter and kids and a house in the suburbs. He could have a life after the War, one that didn’t need Bucky in it. But he let himself think about the week after Bucky fell, the week where his whole world was ripped away from him, and he knew deep down that without Bucky, he would never have come home from the War.

“Draw me.” At one time, Steve would’ve jumped at the offer, a pencil and sketchpad in hand before Bucky could blink, but that part of him has been so far gone for so long that Steve didn’t process the words.

“What?”

Bucky gave him a look that made sure Steve knew he thought he was a little on the slow side. “You looked like you wanted to draw me earlier.” Steve could remember the way he’d openly stared at Bucky and had to fight back a blush.

“I don’t draw much anymore.”

“I haven’t seen you draw at all.”

Steve heard the underlying question in the words, but he didn’t exactly feel like explaining that he could barely stand to hold a pencil. “I’ve been busy,” he lied. He knew Bucky saw straight through it.

“You ain’t busy now.” A hint of teasing crinkled Bucky’s eyes. “Come on, sketch me.”

“Thought you had to go to bed,” Steve replied lamely.

“Thought you wanted me to stay.” Steve realized his hand had been wrapped around Bucky’s wrist for an awkwardly long time and dropped it.

“Don’t expect it to be any good,” he grumbled under his breath, but the room seemed to have air again.

There were a sketchpad and pencil set shoved into his nightstand drawer, untouched since he bought them months ago. When Steve picked them up, they felt foreign, like he wasn’t quite sure what to do with them. He swallowed. He could remember the days where all he had to do was have a pencil in his hand to begin frantically trying to capture Bucky’s expression, no pretense or hesitance at all. Where had that person gone?

Steve held the pencil over the blank paper for a long time. Bucky nudged him with his foot. “Ain’t you gonna start sometime this century?”

“Keep your pants on, jerk. It’s been awhile since I did this.”

Bucky’s face broke out into a smile when Steve said that, and like a dam breaking, drawing felt easy again. Steve let the pencil fall onto the paper and drew one line, then two, then three, and then couldn’t stop the pencil from trailing across the paper to form Bucky’s likeness.

He could feel exhaustion creeping into his movements as he scribbled out the shape of Bucky’s face, who clearly thought deeply as Steve was studying him.

“We should go to the Grand Canyon.”

Steve glanced up from the paper. “I’m not sure we can take a vacation, Buck.”

Bucky gave him a deadpan look. “You’ve saved the world enough times to get a week off, Rogers.”

Steve laughed at how silly a thing it was to say, as if the world wasn’t going to need to be saved again tomorrow and the next day and the day after that. “I’m not sure that’s how this Avengers thing works, pal. Now hold still.”

Bucky relented and resumed his position, but after a few minutes spoke up again.

“We could stop by the Hoover Dam while we’re out there. See where all that tax money of ours went.” 

Steve watched the words form as he began shaping Bucky’s lips. “Right. And then we could visit Monument Valley, and then pop over to Yellowstone for the weekend.”

Bucky turned again. “Why not?”

Why not?

Steve didn’t reply as he turned the question over in his head, turning back to his sketch. There was something in the way he’d drawn him—something there always was when he drew Bucky—that stopped him from showing anyone. It was too easy to see his feelings written all over the page.

“What are we supposed to do, just disappear for a week?” he said suddenly, “I think Fury might actually put us back in the ice.”

“Not if he can’t find us.” Bucky turned out of profile again. “I don’t know if you know this about me, pal, but I’m pretty good at staying under the radar.” Then they were both laughing, and Steve couldn’t get himself to keep drawing because his hands were clumsy with exhaustion. He decided the sketch was as finished as it would ever be and closed the notebook.

Bucky reached for it, giving him a dirty look when he pulled it away. “C’mon, Stevie, you gotta let me see it.” Steve shook his head.

“I’m out of practice. It doesn’t even look like you.”

Bucky reached again. “You’re such an asshole.”

Steve pushed away his hand. “You’re the one who forced me to draw you, jerk.”

“As if I could ever force you to do anything, you stubborn punk.”

And Steve found that hilarious, because he would do absolutely anything for Bucky. Steve handed him the sketchpad and flipped open to the sketch.

Bucky was silent for a moment before looking up. “You really are outta practice, huh?” he teased, but Steve knew him well enough to know he liked it.

“Well maybe if you didn’t have the ugliest mug this side of Mississippi,” Steve shot back without any malice.

Bucky feigned annoyance. “So it’s like that, punk?”

Bucky handed back the sketchbook but didn’t make a move to leave again. The clock on his bed read 2:30am, and Steve wondered why Bucky had lingered for so long.

“So who was the love of your life?”

Steve looked up. “What?”

“I don’t know if you remember, but you gave a rather impassioned speech about love earlier.” Steve laughed to hide his cringe. Bucky caught it anyway and gave a teasing smile. “Who were you sneaking off with that you didn’t tell me about?”

A flash of anger ran through Steve. “Why does everyone act like my life is already over?” Bucky’s head jerked up in surprise at the sudden aggression, but Steve couldn’t stop himself as he snapped, “Everyone makes it seem like my life ended in the 40s and the only thing that got defrosted was Cap.”

“No one really thinks that,” Bucky said, his eyebrows furrowed, but that just made Steve angrier.

“Of course they do. You’ve heard them. No one cares about Steve Rogers anymore.”

Bucky looked almost hurt at that. “I care about Steve Rogers. I care about him more than damn near anything.”

Then the anger deflated and the confusing mess of feelings was back. But this time, Steve couldn’t bring himself to deny the fact that all he wanted to do was lean in and let himself shut out the rest of the world and kiss Bucky senseless. He couldn’t pretend that it was anything else, that he hadn’t spent the better part of a century in love with Bucky and that it wasn’t going away any time soon.

“That’s supposed to make me feel better?”

Bucky’s mouth dropped open in mock offense. “Of course, you’re right. You shouldn’t trust my opinion, seeing as no dame would touch me with a ten foot pole anymore.”

Steve rolled his eyes. “Please. As if dames haven’t always lined up for you. If either of us knows anything about not being touched with a ten-foot pole—”

Bucky laughed. “Aww, Stevie, you still sore about that? Those dames had no idea what they were missing.” He gave a condescending wink. “Five feet of bad lungs and anger issues.”

While Bucky laughed at himself, Steve had to work hard to maintain a straight face. “You know what? Never mind. No dame would let themselves get taken in by a jerk like you.”

Bucky’s eyes sparkled with a challenge. “But apparently you would.” Some part of Steve had hoped Bucky forgot about his “diverting tactic,” and his stomach flipped at the mention of it.

“The situation called for swift and direct action,” Steve defended, which made Bucky’s eyes shine more.

“Swift and direct action? What am I, head lice?”

Steve nodded as if that were a revelation. “That would actually make sense. Annoying, parasitic—” He didn’t have time to rattle off any more qualities because Bucky leaned over and pressed his finger against Steve’s lips.

“You’re such a damn idiot, Rogers,” he said, and then he pulled Steve’s face to his.

Steve made a faint noise of surprise when Bucky kissed him, but then his brain shut down because holy goddamn _hell_. Steve could finally say with certainty why exactly dames had always gone crazy for Bucky. His hand had settled on Steve’s waist and the other cupped his jaw. Steve let his hand trail up Bucky’s neck and settle at his hairline.

After what felt like forever and no time at all, Steve broke away and rested his forehead against Bucky’s.

“Jesus Christ, Buck,” he muttered before dissolving into breathless laughter. He pulled away fully so he could look at Bucky, whose lips were swollen and face was flushed and who was wearing an expression of absolute delight, like he had just managed to do something he’d wanted to for a long time. Steve had seen Bucky with a lot of women, but he never looked like this with them.

Steve knew it was silly, but it made him feel special.

“What the hell was that about?” he asked, still breathless and exhausted and unable to contain the glee in his voice.

Bucky shrugged. “Can’t a guy kiss his best pal goodnight?”

Steve gave him a look. “I don’t think Tony’s sticking his tongue down Rhodes’ throat at closing time, Buck.” All the awkwardness Steve had imagined would follow something like this never surfaced, because this was Bucky, and this was right.

Bucky seemed to think the same thing because his face turned intensely genuine. “Their loss,” he said and kissed Steve again. This time wasn’t as prolonged, but Steve still memorized everywhere Bucky was touching him. For the first time in a long time, he knew when he thought of Bucky he would think of this, and not of the snow and the train and the fall.

Bucky raised a hand and ruffled Steve’s hair in the way that had driven him crazy back in Brooklyn as he broke away from the kiss. Steve ducked his head away instinctively.

“You’re such a jerk.”

Bucky stood up, smiling. “Good night, punk.”

Steve grumbled something under his breath as he watched Bucky walk to the door.

“We gonna talk about this?” he called before Bucky could close it.

Bucky’s hand lingered on the doorknob for a long moment before he looked back with a wry grin on his face. “In the morning.”

The idea of morning hadn’t sounded so perfect in a long time.

Steve pointed a firm finger at him. “I’m gonna hold you to that.”

Bucky took a long look at Steve, like he was drinking in Steve in case he never got to see him again. His face broke into a small smile for the dozenth time over the course of ten minutes. “I bet you will, Stevie. Good night.”

“Good night,” Steve repeated back as the door closed, smiling like an idiot.


End file.
